


kindle [v]

by PTWL



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gay yearning, Gen, Healing, Holding Hands, Hospitals, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Team as Family, Winter Solstice, it's still dd so beware of the normal warnings, like people going mad and tragic stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PTWL/pseuds/PTWL
Summary: Neither of them questioned the Marquise when the decision was made. As they delve deeper into the dungeons, they face greater resistance. They should have never grown so trusting of such a treacherous place. Lady Denver, or, as she prefers, “just Audrey”, spent nearly half a month in treatment for their indiscretion. Heavy doses of Green Fairy and loud companionship as her prescription. Teaming with Sarmenti in her stead seemed most reasonable. A direct approach to fight the horror-inspiring ghasts that guard the deepest tunnels of the Cove.They were wrong._________________________kindle [v]:1. set (something) on fire.2. arouse or inspire (an emotion or feeling).3. (of an emotion) be aroused.
Relationships: Jester/Leper (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Snowiest Dungeon





	kindle [v]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WigglyBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WigglyBlue/gifts).



> This took me quite a while to finish but here I am. I'm not completely content with this fic and I've been worried for the last couple of days that I don't link topics enough or that it's poorly wrapped but, if I don't publish it soon, I'm going to go mad. So I hope you still find it enjoyable.
> 
> Also, I have no idea of what sort of genre this would qualify as but it has some...attempted humor or something.
> 
> Have a nice holiday season and happy reading!

Neither of them questioned the Marquise when the decision was made. As they delve deeper into the dungeons, they face greater resistance. They should have never grown so trusting of such a treacherous place. Lady Denver, or, as she prefers, “just Audrey”, spent nearly half a month in treatment for their indiscretion. Heavy doses of Green Fairy and loud companionship as her prescription. Teaming with Sarmenti in her stead seemed most reasonable. A direct approach to fight the horror-inspiring ghasts that guard the deepest tunnels of the Cove.

They were wrong.

Blood clouds his already blurred vision and the blade swings through the air instead of diving into hard shell. He can endure it, though not for much longer. Without treatment, his limbs would drain dry, and unable to fight anymore. Freezing waters reach their companions’ hips, making any attempt at pressing on or fighting back a trial of strength and will. And it bites at their skin through armor and cloth alike. Mayhaps this is the way the slim puppet of a seaman cursing them with tune found his end like so as well. Limbs stolen of any warmth as he sunk even deeper, unresponsive as yet his eyes saw the light above dim.

“EEEEEEE heee heee heeeeeeee! HA HAAA!”

The maniacal cry tears Baldwin away from the sea’s grasps, even if drilling into his skull mercilessly. His sight might be poor but the desperation of it strikes him all the same. He trusts not himself to bear the screams for much longer. Lute not being able to keep the fiddle in check for much longer. Baldwin has been dying for many years but, now, the thought of falling terrifies him.

“Withdraw!” For one who deals with shadows, Alhazred commands with the voice of an Emissary and Baldwin has no say but to follow.

With hexes and flashing flasks and his blade holding the pincer from delivering a blow, they set to retreat. Paracelsus’ and Alhazred’s robes make navigating through the waters no easy business so Baldwin stands still to assure they get a head start.

“HA HAAAA!” Sarmenti’s laughter is out of control and bells swing as he goes for a clumsy swipe of his sickle, shoulder bumping into Baldwin, deaf to their pleas.

Flame forgive him because Sarmenti might never do so. He seizes the jester’s unnervingly thin wrists to make him quit in his attempt to grapple the ghast. Despite the mask, Baldwin can read on how the hysterical yelling dies a sudden death and he goes limp. He doesn’t even fight back as he is lifted hastily, aimed to be carried over a shoulder, when a strong pincer slams against Baldwin’s back, sending them back into the corridor. Unable to keep balance, Baldwin falls into the water, Sarmenti’s lithe shape under his crushing weight, wood cracking beneath them, both of their breaths robbed from the attack and scaping in bubbles as cold burns their lungs from inside.

Above them, over the line of air, light makes shadows dance. Something impossibly large and powerful wraps around both their middles, pressing them chest to chest, and it drags. Not even filling his lungs back with air seems to distract Baldwin enough from the obvious feeling of wrongness as such unknown power pulls them as if they were nothing but a couple of ragdolls. Pull-

Whatever It is, it drops them to close the gates behind them, and Alhazred sighs as he dispels his invocation out of this plane of existence. The tune from the grave and the odd creaking of the creatures here muffled from the other side but still too close for any real comfort.

“We need to regroup.” Paracelsus mutters as she finds the arterial pinch before the water pooling around them turned pink and Baldwin drew pale. “The map isn’t done yet but these rubies are going to found the next expedition quite handsomely.” Or at the very least, pay for theirs. Though she doesn’t say so.

There is no other viable option, not after their disastrous entrance. Sarmenti, being the only one of them versed enough into disarming lurking machinations to even try, seemed to find the idea of willingly stepping into those seaweed patches that hide opportunistic stationary creatures. None of them could stand him much longer laughing each time the animal’s spines and arms sting him, maiming his habilities.

The jester yells and wails and shakes over his shoulder. He rams his closed fists against Baldwin’s wide back uselessly. He threatens to stab him and his hands even curl against the leper’s neck once. There is a sharp twist of pain deep within Baldwin’s gut as Paracelsus steps closer and shoves one of her flasks close to Sarmenti’s face and then his body goes limp and pliant. He doesn’t word his thanks but nods in her direction all the same.

“Don’t drop the pace, we’re close.” She mumbles the lie through her mask. Baldwin can’t read the map anymore but he remembers well the twists of the paths made by the currents and, even without any mishap, they would be lucky if they arrived at the Hamlet a few hours before sundown. The wish is still appreciated and he catches himself hoping that, somehow, there was any truth in her words.

At times, Sarmenti stirs even through his vapor induced haze. He swings his legs, quicking Baldwin on his plate, bells ringing softly in his weak attempts to free himself. However, as soon as Baldwin runs his hand over his back, as one would do with a half-wild animal, he stills. His arms wrap around Baldwin, suddenly in quiet fear of falling again into the freezing waters.

Baldwin can easily feel his rabbit heart beating to a worrisome pace through his back. He is glad they are leaving instead of pressing on, not with Sarmenti's chest aching so and his breath rugged in a way that implies his heartbeat might give away any moment.

So he does the little he can to bring him comfort. He rubs his knuckles, dressed on bandages and ointments as they are, through his heavily marked spine. He feels his thin ribs through the padded performing attire. And, each time they stop for a short minute to check their map, Baldwin carefully rests his head on Sarmenti's side, as a cat would show closeness.

"Hold fast, we're close." Light forgive him for lying.

The way from the Cove’s entrance to the crossroads is a long one and the sky is torn open like a festering wound when they leave the tunnels, pouring down on them violently. Baldwin has seen winter snowfalls before, though rare back on his homeland, but these are no white feathers falling gently. Today the sky is a dull grey and the water falls as cold as icy needles, soaking through every layer just as the saltpeter leaving them itchy on their hastily treated wounds.

Over his shoulder, Sarmenti’s stirring has disappeared and, though Baldwin would want to tell himself he should be thankful that he is more cooperative now, he can’t fool himself like so. Out of the four of them, Paracelsus’ thick robe is the most fitted for this cruel weather. Alhazred seems nearly unaffected despite the vaporous fabrics he wraps himself on being completely drenched. And Baldwin can feel his bandages growing stiff because of the dampness and coating his skin thigh and close. Sarmenti’s performing attire is doing him no favors even as they leave the wet unsteady sands of the beach and step into hard soils under the storm.

The Light takes mercy on them because the stagecoach is already there, by the road that leads to the crossroads right outside the Hamlet. Sickly yellow lanterns rattle through the heavy curtain of rain, lighthouses in the perpetual dusk time has turned into. Horses neigh ferociously and Baldwin understands that feeling well. He is also on edge because he can’t run as fast as humanly possible to the safety of the Hamlet.

But at least the stagecoach is warmer than the harsh road and it gives them a rest from the downpour as they climb in clumsily. The wind shakes the glasses on the doors and rain sounds like a mad drumming above their heads. Baldwin tries to forget the well-known story of how the poor caretaker crashed the coach on the day the Marquise arrived at the Estate. His mask doesn’t give away the anxiety he feels when they begin moving and the wheels fight against the mud and win this first encounter. He tries to glance at his companions for any comfort but Sarmenti has curled into himself on a corner of the couch, Paracelsus is trying to unclasp her mask from her head to breathe at peace for the first time in hours, and Alhazred… He is the first to reach for the basket at the center of the stagecoach, tossing an old towel to each of them. The food isn’t warm by now but that doesn’t stop them from tearing into the skins full of goatmilk and the loaf of rye bread.

At least three of them do.

Baldwin turns slowly to look at the jester that glances at them through his mask, cloth still laying gracelessly over half atop of him, just as it landed. Insecure, he gestures for him to come closer, and, surprisingly, Sarmenti doesn’t complain as he drapes the towel around him to soak part of the freezing water out of his clothes. He doesn’t make any sign for him to reach for some rations for him and Baldwin can’t really judge him even if it brings him concern. Sarmenti is always leery of who he trusts enough to be barefaced around.

Baldwin himself can count with only one hand the times he has seen the fool’s countenance. His eyes have gone blurry because of his illness but he is well aware of the scars spread around his face and the patches of lighter skin every now and then. The signs of deliberate mutilation tell a silent story to whoever stills themselves enough to hear the scars whispering of what might have happened to the court clown.

And, even then, there is no way to convince Baldwin against it making his resilient beauty even more evident. The patches spread through his hair, small strands standing out in the auburn. Eyelashes some dark as night and others white and hardly visible. Baldwin considers himself a lucky man to be able to have noticed.

He remembers a past winter, not that long ago, close to this date, when his disease had been recently identified. He couldn’t even remember his mother’s face back then but, the morning he turned nine, a fine sabino rose grey mare arrived alongside with a letter from her. Her heart held the soul of the wind and she answered to the kindest touch of his knees. The companions who had flocked around him to gain his favor gone at the thought of sickening too but not her. He had loved the animal deeply and would spend entire evenings after attending his duties accompanying Father during his audiences as his heir brushing her mane.

Even years past that, thinking about the pale spots that hide behind Sarmenti’s mask brings him a strangely familiar sense of peace. Having been graced so to see his bare countenance… It’s as if he had never forgotten how it felt like to reach around the animal’s neck in an embrace, as if he weren’t as lonely in his thoughts as he was in body. She had been bred for her desired coloration but Baldwin knows well Sarmenti’s is naught but a coincidence. And yet, the almost impossible chance makes the jester even comelier. When joy reaches his voice and he laughs in earnest and with his whole heart at a jape or cunning verse he has written himself, Baldwin can swear he also belongs to the ever-changing spring breeze.

It fills his chest with the promise of resurgence and the budding sweetness of being pulled out of drowning in his forlorn fate.

Sarmenti reaches not for anything to satiate his empty stomach but he appears to lean some inches closer. Whenever his breath seems to settle for a slower pace, anxiety kicks in inside Baldwin and he forces himself to gently stir the jester awake each time his consciousness begins to slip, lest he surrenders to the chill. At times, Sarmenti whines and he even lashes at him with a feeble kick. The sound threatens to shatter his rotting heart and Baldwin closes his eyes in prayer for the Flame’s pardon.

They’re well past the old stone bridge and nearly into the town square. Outside, the brutal pouring that harassed them on their way out of the Cove has subsided to a gentler drizzle. Even through the foggy windows of the stagecoach, Baldwin can see what he guesses is candlelight at every window, as befits the night that will come today. Their expedition was expected to take a couple of days more to arrive but, despite the defeat, albeit only slightly, it’s still comforting to be able to feel the warmth of the Night and their companionships after such a close call.

It’s the Light’s will for mankind to glance up at the sky to try predicting their future. When daylight grows shorter and darkness seizes control of their lives, it’s men’s nature to fear. However, it’s also their nature to hope. Whole families sit on the floor around the fire, windows closed to keep the cruel winds at bay, and tables full. Elders retell stories from times past and children cause mischief, unaware of the true dangers of the dark.

The Flame commands them to keep It alive through this longest night, for each person must light a candle in Its altar and not let it die until the sun rises triumphant, or find a caring neighbor to share their fire.

Baldwin has gained a greater comprehension of this ancestral celebration of the solstice now that he has been living in this cursed Estate for a while. There is a desire deep down in the human heart, more primal and ancient than the craving for violence, for power, or for self. The will to hope. Never has Earth bore creature more stubborn than the human. No failure will keep them back. No pain. No higher power that threatens them with the fear of their whole effort being pointless. No force of nature or the eldritch that threaten them, stand a chance against mankind once they have set their minds to it. Time and time again, they will rise to stand their ground.

Even if only a few hours after their close call with oblivion, Baldwin’s heartbeat has settled again, fighting the shivers the water gave him. He is certain that, no matter their recent defeat, they shall overcome this trial too. He pays no mind to how he might look like as he chuckles as if holding an amusing secret.

Paracelsus tilts her head behind her mask, googles large, avian even in her concern. But Alhazred seems to read his mind and he grins back, something sharp in his eyes as he nods to Baldwin in wordless agreement. Despite their many differences, it’s at times like this when Baldwin is confident he can rely on his strange man with his life as he does with any of his companions.

When they stagecoach stops with loud neighs and they’re finally back to safety, they split ways. Alhazred, the older gentleman, leaves for the large lively barracks the Marquise has so diligently reconstructed. It’s an impressive building for the modest Estate, with dorms for both men and women, a common room with a lit fireplace full of life, board games and shelves, and it’s own kitchen and storeroom, big enough for over twenty soldiers. Or so has Baldwin heard, since he has never allowed himself into the building, lest he endangers his companions. He glances not at the building, keeping his longing at bay no matter he can hear the activity from where he stands. Or see all the windows alight.

Meanwhile, Sarmenti doesn’t even fight Paracelsus as the diminutive woman takes his arm and wraps it over her shoulders, leading the lanky man towards the Sanitarium. She will take a look at the blisters left by the lurking scavenging animal that wrapped its tentacles around Sarmenti’s legs. She can also count on the nurses to keep a watchful eye on him while he is in this distant state of mind.

Baldwin considers following them, going to the permanent room he has on the spire, and to change his bandages for dry dressings. But then he catches a glimpse of Sarmenti’s ruined lute, stings broken and wood splint and crushed, still hanging from his back. Once again, the image brings a discrete smile to his wretched face even now that no-one is by his side to see. He mutters a quick prayer to the Flame and thanks It for the idea of the agreement he made with the Marquise weeks ago as he takes large strides towards the blacksmith.

Thibaud’s forge fire is accompanied by a way less dangerous flame flickering on its wax candle. Baldwin has spent many long hours sitting as this man worked to salvage his old heavy blade, companionable silence between them. So when he smith brings the commissions he went halves with the Marquise, wrapped in linens, there is a certain fondness in Thibaud’s eyes.

He takes a long puff from his pipe and makes a couple of rings before humming: “I am experienced enough to know when I won’t be able to improve a work of my own, boy.” Baldwin would never doubt it.

Is this what it feels like to have your favorite grandfather sneaking some present during the Night of the Lights? He has never known such a thing, as many things that had no place within the court. He remembers his family fondly but Sybilla and he never sat on the floor to listen to tales from their grandparents. He has never held a warm bowl of food from beneath to warm his hands. He has never taken a pinch of spices to add to the mulled wine, even if only to grimace at the realization that it’s too much.

Since he became the crowned prince, Baldwin has been very mindful to not make any possible favoritism obvious between his bannermen. So picking up a present for a dear friend, someone he holds close to his heart despite not sharing blood with, nor an ambassador to lavish and display the riches of his lands to, is… Strangely new. It fills his ribcage and head with both restlessness and a blooming determination.

The nurses and nuns greet him formally as soon as he steps inside the Sanitarium. This place has always smelled of blood, antiseptic, and sick sweat. Now, however, there is a certain sweetness to the air as the honeycomb candles burn. The woman that calls him when he is already climbing the stairs two steps at a time is one of the youngest novices. Baldwin can feel how an older physician frowns that she is going to try to scold the girl, not that much younger than Baldwin himself, for the lack of formality to somebody of his station. Despite living his whole life like so, how he finds the thought deeply disturbing. The novice only hands him a closed iron lamp, candle already lit behind the glass.

Things were nothing alike this since before he can remember. Or at least they used to be. He would sit the previous night with his father and his knights to stand vigil, but no man would dare complain if the child prince fell asleep while praying. The archbishop would lit his candle in person from the alter of the Flame, second only to his father, and he would carry it diligently through the day even at his father’s right sitting on the high table during the feast with his officers. And then his sickness came and he spent most of those Nights eating on his own in his bedchambers, glancing down to the faraway streets, where healthy people banded together to celebrate that days will no longer get even shorter.

Even if the girl is a stranger, the fact that she has thought of him at all brings an honest smile to his face, followed by a nod. His lips are a wretched thing, covered in wounds that have been there for a long time, scarred and contorting his face as if he is already rotting in life. She doesn’t seem to mind it. Perhaps the Light has saved some small mercy for him in his last years after all.

With the bundle safely tied to his back alongside his blade and holding the lamp in front of him, Baldwin rushes on his way upstairs, two or three steps at a time with easiness. Not like anyone is waiting for him in his secluded cell at the upper part of the spire though. And yet, he has been able to find solace even there. He passes the desk with his half-written last poem still laying where he left it, and the shelves with his scarce belongings. The hinges whine softly as he opens the window to the cool finally winter air.

He hears more than sees the revelry far below his feet, down in the town. From the abbey’s stained glass in many colors to the drunken cheering of the tavern to the gentle blinking in each house. Baldwin can’t actually discern the shapes of each building but he knows them all the same. From so far up, it feels as if he’s floating in the middle of the sky, no ground under his feet, just stars all around him. Do the ones above him also yell as the ones down by the ground? Maybe they’re just too far for him to hear.

He takes his time, allowing Sarmenti to rest for a while longer. His bandages need to be changed for some cleaner and dry ones, his sword could use some sharpening, and the chilly night cries out for plain wool clothes. Only the mask keeps him from looking as any other mendicant brother or sister that shares his ailment. Though the unseasoned eye would likely deem it golden, it’s nothing but bronze and velvet lining. Baldwin has worn many masks before. Gold leaf, black steel, a silver mask that covered his face whole, delicate porcelain made by a craftsman that knew his face well and held it as he should have looked like had the Light been merciful. In court, they served him better than any shield. Here, however, he keeps them both for the memories they hold and to spare his companions some uneasiness.

Baldwin takes the lamp with him so the Flame can keep him company and shower him with courage. He needs to let Sarmenti know urgently that he knows for certain that they will go back someday and emerge victorious. Such is the will of the Light.

With the halls full of beds deserted and the treatment cells silent from their usual screaming, Baldwin has no trouble navigating through the corridor until he finds a nurse bored enough to tell him where the jester has been sent to inspect his wounds.

The surprisingly single room is set in a corner so multiple windows keep the air from going stale, a rare luxury in the often busy sanitarium. Inside, there is only Sarmenti to welcome him, so he hopes Paracelsus is finally taken a well-deserved rest. The fool sits up abruptly on his bed upon hearing the soft creaking of the door. He has always been of light sleep. As much as the thought unsettles him, Baldwin has always tried to be considerate enough to avoid asking why.

Sarmenti’s face and hands are bare, wearing a thankfully dry and warm change of clothes. So, instead of waiting for a defensive retort, Baldwin turns around instantly, waiting by the door and averting his gaze, as well as blocking the view of any curious nurse that might happen to walk by. He waits for the rustling of fabric to be over and a soft hum comes from his back. The mask doesn’t cover his neck but, if he signaled him to come, it must be a lesser evil.

Even as Baldwin walks into the room and leaves his lamp by the table, he can feel there is something off with Sarmenti. It has been since they left the Cove. The fool is seldom quiet but now, he looks as if drained from his usual energy. Silence makes him feel scrutinized, makes him wonder if Sarmenti is watching closely and trying to predict his every move. Does he fear he might harm him? No, if that was the case he wouldn’t have allowed him in.

Paracelsus wouldn’t have left if he was still in danger so he finds some small comfort in that. He still approaches the iron stove to stoke the flames, the memory of Sarmenti’s trembling still fresh. Lower half under heavy covers, Sarmenti runs his hands over his forearms to feel the warmth get to him easier.

“I’m sorry about your lute.” The broken wood still lays uselessly by the closet. There is not a single thing to be salvaged from the old instrument. Sarmenti doesn’t flinch when he walks to the chair by the patient’s bed. “I talked with the Marquise a few weeks ago so I think the date is quite appropriate. I was considering offering it to you tonight for the Night regardless.”

He gently leaves the bundle he carried on his back atop of Sarmenti’s lap, who eyes the fabric confused for a second before tearing into the quite obvious shape. His gloved hands part the linen until he finds the polished wood. Thibaud was not lying. It’s a fine piece of work. Despite not being able to watch his expression, Baldwin is confident that Sarmenti thinks so too, too busy running his fingers over the delicate glossy bronze ring or the subtle carving surrounding it.

Baldwin is shocked to find Sarmenti taking off his gloves to feel the woodwork better under his fingertips. He traces the unfamiliar shapes as if doing so might make the lute feel like his sooner. His hands soon find the metal pegs and he tenses the strings and Balwin watches completely bewitched as he hums a quiet note, fingers moving out of instinct to tune the instrument.

It might not be words but he relishes in the sound all the same. The notes are played between long silences and Sarmenti’s voice repeats over and over the time sound, trying to spot the difference in pitch. Baldwin allows himself to close his eyes and be enveloped in the ambiance sound, far too disconnected to be properly called music. It soothes the worried aching inside his chest, driving his eyes shut and him to a pleasant light doze.

The timbre differs from Sarmenti’s old wrecked lute, possibly due to the new metallic additions. But his fingers remain dexterous no matter the circumstances. Baldwin leans back on his chair, eyelids heavy with the accumulated exhaustion from their last expedition and many other tests he has lived since he arrived at Hamlet. The candlelight will sit peacefully by his side tonight and Flame will know he shall be forgiven for his imprudence leaving a fire unattended, only to finally be rewarded by some well-deserved sleep.

The catnap is rather short and Baldwin opens his mostly useless eyes once again when the room goes quiet and Sarmenti’s hands still one more time. The tuning is done and he glances at the leper from behind his mask, head tilted in a gesture he has likely copied from Paracelsus. The thought brings a demure smile to his wretched face, squinting his eyes even if no-one will see them.

He can’t remember the last time he slept in earnest, devoid of any worries. And, though they are still there, Sarmenti’s company seems to shoo them away long enough for Balwin to keep himself from drowning in them, even quiet and still not fully there with him as he is. Soon he will, he tries to tell himself. And the fool will be back to playing at the crowded tavern or the Hamlet’s square, from where he can listen to him from the secluded comfort of his cell.

Caught in a fit of an unidentified feeling, Baldwin stands and walks to the window closest to the town center to open it wide. The breeze isn’t as merciless as it was by the sea and he feels in his old scars that the weather is slowly changing so it’s unlikely to keep raining in the morning. Outside, he can still feel the waves of sounds and laugher, the flickering stars that hope for the darkness to be defeated yet another time. When it isn’t trying to actively kill them, the cool feels invigorating and he closes his eyes to take a deep breath. His skin has hardened enough that he often has issues feeling anymore. Cold or warm. Pain or soft touch. All of it holds little meaning more often than not. But the inside of his lungs has not turned to stone yet and the sting makes him feel something.

He wonders which face Sarmenti might be making under his mask. Amused? Worried on whether he has gone mad? Plainly confused? Baldwin can’t know. But he finds comfort in seeing him stable enough to not rush for the blankets once the window is open. He turns around just in time to see the jester shake his head lightly, letting out a sound akin to a snort. Baldwin doesn’t expect him to speak so soon but the little sound still pleases him beyond measure. More than any true laughter might have come from Sarmenti in this state. At least not the guffaws that are half-sobs. Nor the sobs that sound like half-guffaws.

“When empty, the sanitarium can feel quite the lonesome place.” Baldwin catches himself saying what he knows well. It’s almost as haunting as when the rooms are full and the screaming fills the air. Sarmenti is no stranger to the treatment wards. “Though I know Paracelsus came with you, I wanted not to leave you on your own.” Not after watching yet another time the fool willingly putting himself in harm's way when there was no need or use for it.

Baldwin’s spirits have waned many times so he understands the impulse to flee away permanently from whatever haunts his companion. Each night he prays that, wherever he must go afterward, he is freed from his burden. And now he knows that from now on he will be praying for his dear fool too.

“When I’m on my own,” He continues. “and my sight refuses to fade even more, I like listening to you play far below.” The confession makes him feel particularly bold. “And I write. It’s not very good, I’m not stupid enough to believe my bannermen who used to praise me for it.” Though he feels a deep embarrassment at the memory of having done so as a child-king. “Mayhaps it woul-”

The first chord is the sweetest thing Baldwin has heard in his whole life and he stares at white patches of hydrangea that cover Sarmenti’s knuckles with a will of their own. Too busy allowing himself to be enthralled by the nimble touch over the strings and rich sound, he is caught off guard when Sarmenti tilts his head and signals him the simple desk close to the open window silently without neglecting his tune for a second. Though not his usual materials, any quill, and paper shall do the work.

Eager as he never got the chance to be a child, he sits hastily on the wooden chair that complains weakly at the weight. It must be a rather humorous sight, such a large man hunched on his back over such a tiny modest desk in a precarious attempt to actually be able to see anything he writes. Not far from him, Sarmenti hides his amused chuckled behind a strummed progression of chords. And, if Baldwin is more than willing to play the fool for this former jester, he can’t find any single reason to restrain himself from doing so.

Light only knows for how long they stay like so. And, truth be told, he only cares about how it feels too little anyway. Baldwin only looks up from his draft when he hears carelessly loud steps coming from the corridor, cheerful chatter muffled by the door. He glances to Sarmenti, who eyes the door with suspicion and leaves Baldwin’s present on his lap to cover his hands once again with his gloves.

“You said count to three to count down from three.” A feminine almost nasal voice complains. It takes Baldwin a second to click right in place without the mask’s beak filled with herbs distorting the sound.

Amused, Baldwin turns around on the chair to eye the entrance.

“Way to ruin it, dear.” Male. Sarcastic. Raw from drinking. There is no doubt. He mutters something Baldwin can’t quite understand and then: “ **Now!** ”

Dismas opens the door like he owns the place, one arm crossed dubiously over his chest, as if holding something. As soon as they get in, Paracelsus resumes their previous argument. She is dressed in her pristine white clinic robe and Baldwin is pleased to notice they’re hardly wet. Behind the rumbustious pair, Barristan sighs and manages to get them past the door.

As Sarmenti stares in disbelief, Baldwin gets up quickly to offer the only reasonable seat to the elderly gentleman, being careful to hide his half-baked piece. Complaining lightly about how he still feels as if he were twenty and there is no need for him to sit, Barristan takes the chair anyway. Much like Thibaud, the man brings a smile to his lips. He shall worry about Barristan’s health the day he quits complaining.

As if possessed, Dismas starts inspecting the whole room for _something_ , and Para just sits on the bed, shrugging. She is kind with Sarmenti, trying to ask him if he’s feeling better and not pressuring him too much when he still isn’t able to talk. Instead, she asks him if he could show her his new lute, earning an excited hum from his part. Paracelsus has always been able to read Sarmenti easily and click with him despite their differences, something Baldwin struggled with greatly at first. The fool is viciously defensive as soon as people of Baldwin’s birth approach him. He needs no more pieces to start to put together what he might have gone through. Despite his usual calm, some righteous fury threatens inside Baldwin but he is fast to dismiss it in favor of enjoying the Night.

Finally, Dismas finds a large pot and he raises it, proud in his victory and slightly inebriated. Leaving the pot on the fireplace, he opens his coat dramatically and, instead of the many cartridges he usually carries to the dungeons, many bottles occupy the hidden holsters. He takes one in each hand and begins pouring them into the pot to warm the deep red mulled wine. It makes the whole room smell of cinnamon, cloves, and citrus. Light be kind, Baldwin hasn’t noticed he was utterly starving until right now. His stomach twists at the scent and it roars embarrassingly loudly, making Dismas turn with one of those smirks of his, as if there always was a secret joke only he is clever enough to get.

Baldwin still turns to Paracelsus, concern clear in his pitch. “Do you think it’s safe for Sarmenti to drink anything alcoholic right now? He was so cold when we arrived-”

“That can hardly be called alcoholic.” Para huffs, dismissing his concern. He still trusts her judgment. There are dark patches under her eyes and it makes her look wiser beyond her years, or perhaps just exhausted, but Baldwin is very aware that she is still close to his age. It only makes him hold an even deeper admiration for the plague doctor.

The loud coughing from behind the door surprises him and Barristan stands to open it for Reynauld, holding an impressive pot that makes his steps clumsy and slow even without armor. He looks pale as if he has seen a ghost, which only makes both Para and Dismas laugh at him rudely.

“Stand strong, son. The things you do for your allies shall never be forgotten.” Barristan proclaims so solemnly it might as well be an open mockery and Reynauld glares at him like a man that has dragged himself from Hell.

Dismas steps aside to let the crusader warm his own pot by the fire but he looks up, back of his hand on his forehead on a poor impersonation of a lady about to faint. His long time companion does not look very pleased with that.

“Sir, I am afraid visiting hours are long past.” Dismas’ falsetto is a terrible thing but he does a great job at mimicking the rigid accent slurring of Mother Superior, the lead of the sanitarium. In fact, it’s almost frightening.

With a crooked mischievous smile on her face, Paracelsus stands up and bows dramatically. “But my dear maid,” She struggles in keeping her voice so deep and raspy, coughing. “I simply cannot allow a companion of mine to remain alone during the Night. Shall the Light will it, I would do whatever it takes for my friends and me to be able to access your domains.”

“Anything, kindest sir?” Dismas steps forth and grasps Paracelsus’ arm, as if in deep awe at its build.

Baldwin glances at the scolding crusader, feeling deep compassion for him. It is well known that Mother Superior has always been more thoughtful to the Marquise’s requests when spoken by Reynauld over tea and pastries. And, though the elderly woman has never pursued him, the man still finds the idea deeply disturbing.

“ _This_ is infuriating! I do one good deed to allow us to slip into the sanitarium and this is how you repay me?” Unfortunately for him, Reynauld sounds more exhausted than furious, which only makes the couple of little devils grin further. “And stop spreading rumors about other people. She has done naught but asked me for my first dance in the New Year’s ball.”

Back to his normal voice, Dismas whistles. “That’s how it starts. Let’s see how long it takes for the word to spread and someone asks about your fees.”

The answer is immediate, sharp, and biting. And without mercy.

“Not like you could afford him.”

Those are Sarmenti’s first words since before he lost touch with reality much earlier today and every one of them turns around to stare at him in sheer disbelief. Then both Paracelsus and Dismas break into a hyena laughter that gives away that they have been spending much time with Audrey lately.

“Couldn’t-” Barristan just pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, suddenly feeling his age. “Couldn’t you have said something nicer first?”

As Dismas, still fighting to ease his breath, hands them clay glasses with their wine, Sarmenti just hums: “My bad.” Without a single ounce of repentance in his voice that leaves both soldiers sighing in defeat.

Baldwin is too taken aback yet, marveled at how it was something as simple as sharp humor that finally brought Sarmenti back with them. He had been trying to reach for him the whole evening and, though it was soothing to stay with him and work together, it didn’t awaken Sarmenti like an opportunity within reach to mock anyone, especially Dismas, with whom he shares an odd rivalry. Worrisome at times and friendly on other occasions, such as this one.

It feels almost natural to sit as they do together, even in its novelty. Sarmenti sitting on the bed with Paracelsus sharing a small portion of the mat. Barristan on the only chair by them and Dismas on the floor with his back against the bed’s structure. Reynauld keeping an eye on the fire and himself leaning by the window.

Baldwin holds the cup between his hands delicately, allowing the warmth to seep into his usually freezing hands and he rises it to where his nose once was to breath in the rich smell. It smells as warm and sweet as Barristan retelling them how the roster had been waiting for their arrival. “Jo has made little sweets of millefeuille with honey and almonds. I hope you can come to the barrack tomorrow to try them.” He hums. The wine also fills his mouth with just the same heady flavor as Sarmenti’s laughter at that, still exhausted but relieved to be back.

Each time Sarmenti lifts his mask slightly to take a sip, everyone in the room looks politely elsewhere, giving him some minimum privacy. However, when they don’t and Sarmenti matches each of Dismas’ japes one by one and he shows proudly his new lute, Baldwin watches from his place by the window, allowing the feeling to drown him, as the putrid waters of the Cove would never dare to.

“A hardy one, that one, don’t you think, Your Majesty?” The knight hums by his side, stirring the pot as Baldwin fights his hunger as best as possible.

He met the man years ago, during the crusades. They only talked twice but Baldwin, even younger back then, found the crusader reliable and trustworthy, likable. He is glad to have found a familiar friendly face even amidst this madness.

Baldwin doesn’t even tell him off for the unwanted formality, knowing he won’t be able to change Reynauld’s mind after months as equals. “He shouldn’t have needed to be hardy. I wish he could have been safe.” Whether he means during their last incursion to the Cove or during those awful years Sarmenti only talks about when the horrors they fight break his resolve.

There is a spark of understanding in his gaze and he keeps his voice quiet, private. “We are charged to be brave. Charged to be just. To protect the young, innocent, and powerless.” Baldwin took his own oaths as a knight years ago but he remembers them well. “He is bound to this place now too, with the same quest as us. You cannot shield him from his sacred duty.”

The young man closes his eyes and weights the words slowly, knowing them true but having the visceral impulse to still do as he pleases yet. When he looks again at the crusader, he feels confident again. “Have you ever planned of minding those words yourself, sir?” He sounds more playful than defensive.

It tears a polite laugh from him. “As observant as ever, Your Grace.”

Once warm and served, the stew is close to making Baldwin feel like tearing up. It’s a simple beef dish but cooked slowly for many long hours with a mindful heart. He finds onions and carrots and mushrooms in its heaty red wine broth. It’s most likely the same red as the one they’re drinking. Dismas cheerfully states that there is a cauldron as large as the Hag’s filled to the brim down in the barracks.

Baldwin avoids glancing at Sarmenti’s half-revealed face. It’s a small courtesy but he still tries. However, he can’t help but laugh when someone as petite as Paracelsus commands Reynauld to prepare second servings for both Sarmenti and Dismas as their doctor no matter how scanty their appetite often is. They groan and complain and swear but eat their double ration all the same. And, when they’re done, both of them hide their faces again.

Dismas belches and, while half of the room finds it rude, the other half laughs at it, which was most likely his aim by the way he glances at both Para and Sarmenti. And then he wipes his mouth with his neckerchief in an attempt of fake courtesy.

Barristan frowns. “I swear I don’t care if you must breath cold air but one day I shall take that filthy scarf of yours and throw it into the laundry with antivenom if I need to.”

Sarmenti wastes no time to add: “Maybe you should consider throwing him whole into the laundry with antivenom. Wash him and his clothes.”

The night is calm despite the laughter and the mild complaining and the shared little japes shared over more spiced wine. Even if it feels like the opposite, it reminds Baldwin of the late summer afternoons early into his rule when he was still barely more than a child. He would stay in his solar after a whole day of court and play chess and write, with a glass of iced honeyed milk by his side. It must be the taste of cinnamon. Except now he is surrounded as if he were not a pariah.

When Barristan coughs to draw their attention, all of them suddenly go quiet, as he’d like them to do more often when he is trying to explain his tactics at camp, gathered together in tenous firelight. Perhaps surprised at the quick answer, Baldwin notices how Barristan’s ears turn red and he mutters something under his breath. He reaches for a package he has managed to hide thanks to the ruckus made by everyone else and hands it to Sarmenti, who glances at the man in surprise, not fully sure for a second of what’s going on.

“What are you waiting for, son? Just tear it open.” Baldwin doesn’t need to hear more from the soldier to know that, while he enjoys doting on people he loves, he isn’t comfortable with the spotlight.

Sarmenti needs no further encouragement. He rips the brown paper apart eagerly to reveal a simple wooden box. Weighing it in his hands, he throws one last glance at Barristan before opening it for good. Glass jars, each filled with a liquid of different color. He takes a bright blue jar and shakes it, waiting for something to happen.

“Do you know anything about this?” Sarmenti asks Paracelsus, the usual suspect for any shiny odd-colored substance.

“Each time,” She begins. “ each time someone finds anything that doesn’t look like water or alcohol, everyone here thinks it’s my doing.” Paracelsus groans but her outrage feels powerless and barely more than a childish outburst. “No, it wasn’t me.”

“It’s paint.” Barristan tries to keep the peace between them before Sarmenti can answer sharply as he often does. “Wood lacquer.” When he isn’t yelling orders and his voice is quiet instead of booming as it shines in the battlefield, Barristan shifts as if out of place. “I heard the Marquise and His Grace over here talk about a new lute some weeks ago and I thought that maybe it would help make it feel more yours.”

Sarmenti falls silent on the bed. Baldwin catches at the corner of his eye Dismas walking to the back of the room to leave them some space. He is smiling again, amused, yes, but there is also some fondness he is unlikely to admit out loud. The wine must have gone to his head because he doesn’t hide from Baldwin’s blurry gaze or tries to look unaffected as usual. The mere thought of it makes Baldwin smile back even if shily.

“Do you want me to paint it?” Sarmenti’s voice is barely more than a whisper and he tilts the jar again, still unsure.

“Would you like to?”

And though it’s obvious Sarmenti wasn’t expecting to be answered with another question, there is a heavy feeling settling in his voice. “I guess now I do.”

Baldwin has grown quite used to read Sarmenti’s mood despite not being able to see his face. Now that his speech becomes louder and more confident again, there is little doubt that the jester is radiant as few things have ever been. He laughs at every chance and discusses the colors with Barristan. He begs Paracelsus to convince nurses to let him out tomorrow so he can go to the barracks and get started on the painting’s draft.

Baldwin even finds himself taking a third serving of stew at Barristan’s insistence that he needs it because he is still in “growing age”. Dismas doesn’t look too excited about that thought but he sits by Baldwin anyway. He tells him of all their other comrades that wanted to come but couldn’t.

William not being able to bring his dog without the permanent scolding of the nurses. Junia in her neverending worry. Alhazred, who was so very brave in those tunnels, preferring Sarmenti to rest. Jo with her pastries everybody suspects she only fakes making to cover for someone who has a reputation. Audrey, guilty that Sarmenti took her place and paid so greatly for it. And even the ones he didn’t mention one by one, getting ready for the jovial occasion, so rare in a place as the Hamlet.

“Your Majesty, know you’re invited to come into the barracks whenever you want.”

And, oh, he _craves_ , he’d love to. To sit by the fire and have Alhazred share his newfound research about the diaries they found. To taste the famous sweets. Watch Audrey knit and listen to the bustle coming from the kitchen. To have all of their candles burning together. But Baldwin mutters he would never forgive himself for endangering them. He would hate to see any other fall apart too.

“Fall apart?” Dismas huffs. “Do you really think you’re falling apart, brat?” And, though no-one has ever talked to him like so, Baldwin feels a sting of affection at it. “Maybe we should be glad you aren’t healthy, ‘cause that strength of yours would be truly a menace.”

“Just tomorrow then.” The crusader presses on. “Don’t you want to see them paint?” He knows exactly what he is doing, no matter how often Sir Reynauld has been called thick or slow. He makes his move.

And Baldwin gladly allows himself to be cornered and yield. To do as his heart commands even if only once.

Only when the moon is already so high in the sky it begins to fall, do their companions begin to stretch lazily from their seats. Half a gift and half sloth, they leave both pots for Sarmenti to enjoy as much as he pleases. “We should get going,” Baldwin hears Dismas say as he cracks his bones. “lest Reynauld’s debt grows over what he’s willing to offer.” He doesn’t find his jest as funny after a deserved nudge on the ribs. But it makes Samenti chuckle tiredly all the same. Those two leave quarreling as ever after wishing them a good night of deserved rest but neither Paracelsus nor Barristan follow behind.

The first to approach Sarmenti’s side is Para, who looks for something between the folds of her clinic garb. A candle. “We left ours down in the barracks. I asked Audrey to take good care of mine.” Unlike often, now, tired and mildly drunk, with her cheeks pink from the heat and failing to not sound slightly embarrassed, Paracelsus finally looks her real age. So close to Baldwin’s or Sarmenti’s it feels almost surreal. “I thought you might like to keep it for the remaining of the Night.”

Even as a woman of science, Para once confessed to Baldwin over a bonfire in the Ruins that she finds the rhymic crackling of the flames soothing. Something to stare at while she stills her breath when she feels her grasp on reality begins to slip from her hands.

“I do.” Sarmenti chirps as he holds the cold piece of wax. Baldwin sees him glance down for a moment to take a better look at it as if slightly confused by the present. Transfixed.

Then comes Barristan, who lays a stout hand over Baldwin’s shoulder as if there was not any risk. He knows Sarmenti enough to be aware that he prefers to keep touching to a minimum. He looks at both of them alternately. “Normally, it would take me only a few hours to start my routine but I won’t hold it against you kids this once.” Baldwin understands him well. Military routine is often hard to unlearn and Baldwin frequently finds himself rising before the first drops of sunlight too. “I won’t bother you for much longer, just-”

Whatever the elderly soldier is struggling with, he seems to find strength in tightening his fingers over Baldwin’s shoulder. Whether using him as a crutch or trying to get his attention, it matters not.

“I’ve seen many young men growing desperate and hopeless after defeat, especially when the weather is as ill and fails to inspire any positive feeling. However,” Barristan measures his words, choosing carefully. Still very aware of Sarmenti’s recent state of mind. “adversity can foster hope, and resilience. But I can’t deny it gets easier with help. I would like you to finally bury any feud that might still linger between and act as brothers-in-arms should.”

Baldwin had to learn how to read through the lines, to hear what people never say aloud, so he notices the distinct sting of longing. He wonders about the campaigns Barristan has told them again and again and tries to remember any name he said more often. He tries to remember what memories make his features light and his laughter to roar louder. He cannot.

“Promise me you will watch each other’s back. And, yes, that means allowing the other to do so in return.” He adds sharply before Sarmenti jumps to exploit the loophole in his words.

And, while Baldwin struggles to find his voice, to order his thoughts, Sarmenti chuckles, sleepy, and answers without a trace of doubt: “Old man, you really should be heading to bed if you still need my word at this point.”

The smirk that settles over Barristan’s face is a proud one. A feeling sweet and warm and oh-so-large it might as well make his heart burst if he were to keep it hidden. Baldwin knows that grimace well. He remembers it in his own father’s face whenever he would make the right question or defeat children twice his age in the yard. He saw it often when greeting Lords or discussing the Verses with ordained priests. It reminds him of playing the harp and each attempt in which he tried to ask if his mother would be joining them soon. Then it always banished. He can’t help but pray to the Light for Sarmenti to be luckier even if it’s now, later in life than when he first should have had a father.

“And you, son? What say you?”

Both of their gazes set on him and, despite all of his dressings and the poultice preventing his wounds to fester, he feels as if he is torn open for them to see all of him. There is not a single trace of his soul he would be able to hide at such request, nor at such an urgent question. Instead, his heart speaks on its own and the words leave him barely above a whisper, a gasp full of him. “Most ardently.”

He is barely aware enough to notice Barristan’s pleased huff or the way he shakes his head in amusement. No. Baldwin is too entranced by the silent tilt of Sarmenti’s head to mind anything else. Barristan either notes it and gallantly decides to let it be or is too tired to make any sort of remark. Probably both things.

However, Sarmenti does look away once Barristan reaches the door. His voice is tired, thin and there is an ounce of frail hopefulness. “See you tomorrow?”

“First, rest. Then, leisure.” It’s Barristan’s quick answer. “This is an order.”

Sarmenti is fast to notice the jaunty tone and he lifts his hand to his forehead in salute, playfully. “Aye, sir!”

When Barristan is gone too, Sarmenti still glances at the door for a while. Baldwin can swear he is able to hear his slow deep breathing along with the gentle whisper of the flames lighting the room with warm yellows and oranges. The jester fidgets with his new candle, rolling it between his hands, apparently absent-minded.

Then his hands go suddenly still and he glances up at Baldwin by his side. “Let me use your candle to kindle mine.” There is an odd confidence in the request. And it falls between them without a trace of mockery. As the longest night of the year, sunrise is still a few hours away, enough time to pass the gift of the Flame and lit another fire.

So Baldwin kneels by his side, Sarmenti’s gaze heavy on him. Before he can reach for his lamp, nimble arms reach for him and gloved hands wrap around his head. Sarmenti lowers the hood of his clothing and he undoes the lace holding Baldwin’s metal mask in place. He takes it in his hands, leaving Baldwin feeling barer than he has ever been.

As these hands settle on his own mask, Baldwin manages to find his voice again. “You don’t need to-”

“I know.” Baldwin has to hold himself from closing his eyes or looking away as he often does. No matter what he tells himself, it looms over him as if he is trespassing a sacred boundary between them. “But I want to.”

The first time he saw Sarmenti’s face it was an accident and it was enough for the jester to threaten him and flee his company for nearly a month. There have been short glances he didn’t mean during camp. Sarmenti’s sleeping pained countenance as vile venoms were drained from his blood. His voice broken as they stood watch together at night, Baldwin having to stop his hand from throwing his mask to the floor and crushing it with one foot. Sarmenti had backed away, dark eyes wide and frightened as he grabbed his wrist. He looked too shaken to even scream.

Now, however, it is something he is given freely. The idea terrifies him as nothing else has ever done. He is relieved when the glass panels of his lamp don’t rattle against the dark iron frame. His hands might shake but he doesn’t need Sarmenti to know for certain too. Nor does he want the sound to break the silence enveloping them like a thin veil. Even the joyous music and laughter far below their feet have ceased.

Opening the bolt with unsteady hands, Baldwin offers the Flame to share with Sarmenti. And he allows It to pass into him. Sarmenti carefully tips the wax candle into Baldwin’s until the wick catches fire. The close light somehow only manages to make his eyes appear even darker as he gazes in awe at the lean candle between his hands. However, Baldwin can’t help but wonder. The porcelain patches spread through his skin, through his hair. They color unevenly his long eyelashes. In his half-blindness, Baldwin’s breath is robbed by the thought of such beauty splashing white part of his gaze. Even now, though, he is defeated as they look up from the flickering flame and right through him. Black as night and so very sharp.

No surrender has ever made him feel as exposed, as vulnerable. Baldwin barely manages to command his legs to raise himself from his knees. His chance to flee this place is there if he’s willing to take it. The stone hasn’t swallowed the wooden door whole yet and it’s unlikely to happen. Whatever his other options are, he knows it’s not his place to dwell on them. So he gazes shortly at the door as he stands. Sarmenti is back now, safe and himself. There is no need for him to linger.

Yet he does.

“Stay with me until dawn.”

There is no luring threat hanging over Sarmenti to excuse his actions as following his promise to Barristan. No threat but the shadow of solitude. Baldwin has known such curse for many long years, he wishes not its many ghosts to anyone, friend or foe. And, though Baldwin has no right to tear a confession about what haunts the jester, he’d be the fool out of the two of them if he pretended for a second that Sarmenti hasn’t inflicted himself with the torture of isolation.

One more time, Light prevails even through the blackest struggle. Again and again, until time is stretched for eternity. Their fires, sheltered together behind the glass and stone walls, flicker side by side. Baldwin’s candle is way more melted, bound to be extinguished far sooner. But that’s hardly news. Until his sparkling fades away, it shall shine ever brighter.

Winter sunshine breaks into the room, pale and weak as budding hope. The storm, naught but a brief ill memory in their slumber. There is no music, no laughter for those healing, resting to rise again and catch up with the world around them. Only the peaceful companionable whisper of mismatched breathes long-fallen into pace together. Only dried ink, soaked into bandages and paper. Only spotted hands hanging between bed and chair, fingers linked together, promise to leave not where the other can’t follow to keep an attentive eye and steadfast shoulder.

In the quiet first lights, before they find themselves one day more, thin black tendrils of ran ink are trapped in searing white. A challenge and a vow:

_every tragedy_

_in life has its own_

_wound._

_scar._

_and silver lining._

**Author's Note:**

> The poem belongs to [juansen dizon](https://juansendizon.tumblr.com/post/160322555512) , feel free to check his other works.
> 
> I feel impossibly relieved as I write the end notes. Working on this fic has been a delight, yes, but also quite exhausting. I know it isn't very explicitly shippy but I guess this is what I popped into existence oops. Either way, it was pretty fun to be able to delve deeper into Baldwin's pov and thought process and I'm glad I've been given the chance to create this new connection with the character.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Please, feel free to drop any thoughts or advice if you feel like it!
> 
> I hope to see you soon!


End file.
